The Art of War
by Eliza2012
Summary: Damon needs a diversion now that Elena has chosen Stefan. Alicia isn't quite what he expected.


The Art of War

By Eliza

"All warfare is based on deception."

Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

Damon spies her as he pulls up to the bar and as soon as he sees her, he knows he wants her. He has to set a plan in motion. Plot out his strategy. Decide on how to fight this battle.

He watches her empty ice from a tub into the hopper. She's listening to an iPod tucked into a pocket in her apron, the white earphones threaded up on either side of her face. She's pretty in a blonde haired blue-eyed perfect little angel sort of way. Cute figure, just a bit of cleavage visible behind a black-lace lined v-neck tshirt under her green bartender apron. Tight jeans cut low. Thick black belt.

_Army boots?_

Damon watches as the blonde hauls another load of ice from the back and refills the ice hopper. She doesn't even look at him.

_Come on, sweet young thang. Take a glance over here and see me in my glory. I could use a bit of a distraction from the scene I just left back at the house, with Elena draped over Stefan like black silk._

"Who's the new girl in town?"

Mac, the manager, is tending bar. He grins knowingly.

"That's Allie. Actually, it's Alicia, but she goes by Allie. Student at a Duke University here for the summer. I hired her last week when Chris left town without giving notice. She's been a godsend. Taken all his shit shifts so I have some kind of life."

"How'd she end up in Mystic Falls?"

Mac shrugs and pours another shot for Damon. "She didn't say much and I didn't ask for clarification. She said she had relatives here and that's good enough for me."

"She's what – twenty-one at least, to tend bar."

"Twenty-three. In her senior year. History major. Civil War or something."

Damon raises his eyebrows. Prospects are improving rapidly that he'll be able to charm the panties off her and won't have to pull out the heavy artillery – at least until they're naked.

Damon smiles at his own wit.

"Civil War history, hmm?"

"Yep. She said she's making a number of stops over the summer to different sites of famous battles. Decided to stay in Mystic Falls, use it as her home base."

_Hey, sweet thing. Have I got a Civil War veteran for you._

Damon points to his glass and while Mac pours another shot of bourbon, Damon considers his approach.

Winning a new piece of territory requires a battle plan, strategy, tactics, a big gun, which he most certainly has, and most of all, some good old Damon charm.

* * *

She's busy for the next hour hauling in cases of booze, shelving bottles, doing dishes while Mac tends bar. It's a busy night and Damon doesn't get a chance to even speak with her until just before eleven when Mac goes on a break.

She fixes a round of drinks for a table of rowdies playing pool, and then turns her attention to Damon. She hasn't looked at him once. At least, not once that he noticed and he's been very attentive to her. When she finally does, he waits for her response and is pleased. She blinks several times, and looks away quickly, her cheeks flushing.

Oh, _yeahhh_… She's picked up on the Damon charm at first glance.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, pointing to his empty glass. "Got a refill for a thirsty customer?"

She wipes the bar with a thick white cloth.

"What's your poison?" she says, recovering quickly, but her face is guarded, as if she's trying to keep her expression under control.

"Bourbon."

She keeps cleaning without looking at him and he notices how smooth her fair skin is, how perfectly pink her lips.

"High end or discount?"

He makes a face of mock-affront. "Now, do I _really_ look like the discount bourbon type? I'm _crushed_."

She smiles, a reluctant smile and looks at him. Oh, she's _shy_. He can tell the way she glances at him, almost afraid to make direct eye contact. Like it's hard to even look at him.

"Maker's Mark?"

"Sounds good," he says, pushing his glass forward. "Hit me."

She retrieves a bottle from the shelf and pours him a single.

"Better make that a double."

She meets his eyes. "Are you sure? You've been here for quite a while."

_Oh, you did notice me after all…_

He nods. "Make it a triple."

She hesitates, tilting her head to the side, shaking her head slowly.

"You're not driving are you?"

"Sweetheart," Damon says and leans closer to her so his face is just inches from hers. "I'm a man who can hold my liquor. _Trust_ me. If you don't believe me, go ask your boss, but he'll be pissed if you do. I'm one of his best customers."

She pours. "If you say so."

"I say so." He takes a big slug and considers her. "So, what's your name, bartend? I can't keep calling you sweetheart all night. Well, I could, but it's so…" he says and pauses. "_Familiar_ and I barely even know you. I'm exceptionally shy, in case you didn't notice."

She grins and wipes some glasses that just came out of the dishwasher, hanging them on the rack above her head.

"Allie."

"Allie?" he says, pretending not to know. "As in Muhammad?"

"As in Alicia."

"A-_licia_." he says. "Pretty name for a very pretty dame._ Very_ pretty."

She rolls her eyes and tries to hide her smile but fails, her cheeks flushing again in a very captivating way.

"Damon Salvatore," he says and extends his hand, smiling his very best _I'm a cold-hearted vampire and I want to drink you dry_ smile. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

She takes his hand and shakes over the bar and Damon makes sure to kiss her knuckles as a true Southern gentleman would.

She blushes again, but doesn't pull her hand away.

Damon _likes_ her. She's shy but she appreciates a bit of teasing. She _likes_ it.

She likes _him_.

He's expert at detecting any smidgen of feminine interest in his manly gifts. And does he have a gift for her, packed up uncomfortably tight and ready to be unwrapped and enjoyed.

It's then he notices a few freckles across the bridge of her nose. Just a light spray giving her a sun-kissed look. All innocent-like. Makes him want to corrupt her. Hear her giving little soft moans as she lies beneath him, naked, while he does nasty things to her body.

He takes a _big_ sip.

"So, A-_licia_," he says, trying to make conversation with her. Hoping to entice her into considering a hook-up without him having to compel her. Compulsion is a weapon of last resort and he has so many other tricks up his sleeve. "What brings you to the great little town of Mystic Falls, Virginia?"

"Looking up relatives," she says. "Work. I'm doing a research project for my honors year on how PTSD was defined and handled by the military during the Civil War."

"Honors?" Damon purses his lips and nods his head. "You a history student? Where're you studying?"

"Duke."

"Well," he says, leaning a bit closer. "I just happen to be a bit of a Civil War expert. I could probably teach a course, if I had a desire to do it."

"Really?" she says, stopping, looking at him with real interest for the first time. "Did you study the Civil War at university?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. George Mason, Class of, oh, quite a while back."

"You don't look old enough to have a PhD. You need one to teach."

"Why, _thank_ you," he says. "I look _much_ younger than I really am. Good genes. Runs in the family." He holds his glass up and winks at her.

She nods, her interest piqued.

"What do you know about how the military treated soldiers with PTSD?"

"Well, Alicia, back in the day, it was called 'Soldier's Heart'. A Civil War doctor named Jacob Mendes Da Costa actually first identified it in Union Hospitals where he worked."

She leans in attentively. "Yes, I've read some of the early literature."

"What's your interest?" Damon says, wondering why such a pretty thing is so serious. "What led you to want to study the Civil War? And why PTSD in soldiers?"

She shrugs one shoulder, raises her eyebrows.

"Personal reasons."

She turns her back for a moment and makes busy with the bar cloths, then goes back to her work and Damon wonders if he's touched a raw nerve.

"Hey," he says, "Alicia."

She turns back and he can see she's shut herself off as if she's fighting to keep her composure, her pale blue eyes hooded by her thick lashes. He cricks his finger to her and she leans in closer without thinking.

He holds her eyes with his, uses his powers to relax her.

"You're OK, Alicia. Whatever's hurting you? It doesn't hurt right now. You can tell me. Do you understand?"

She stares in his eyes, mesmerized. "It doesn't hurt right now," she says like a good little compelled human. "I can tell you."

He pulls back and holds out his glass once more. "Bartend, you're getting a bit inattentive to my needs."

She smiles and pulls out the bottle of Maker's Mark and pours him a double.

"So," he says and takes a sip. "Tell me why a sweet young thing like you is so interested in how the Civil War defined PTSD?"

"My boyfriend killed himself when he came back from Iraq." She smiles sweetly and wipes off another wet glass from the dishwasher.

"_Ohhh_," Damon says and blinks a few times. He chugs the rest of his bourbon and sets the glass down on the bar. He takes in a breath. "I'm so… sorry."

"It's OK," she says, her face calm. "It doesn't hurt right now. I can tell you."

"Yes," he says. Motions to his glass. Alicia refills it with another double. _Fuck_. He doesn't want to think of this. He had so many plans for her. Now he has to rethink his whole strategy.

"You _could_ tell me," he says. "If I wanted you to tell me, but right now, I don't. Instead, I want you to tell me all about Alicia, your hopes and dreams."

"My hopes and dreams," she says, and Damon thinks this is just far too easy. Gone is the dead boyfriend. He takes another huge swig of bourbon and he's already wondering what she'll look like naked with her legs wrapped around his neck.

Then she glances at her watch. "Mac's off his break and then I'm finished my shift."

"Well," Damon says and cricks his finger at her. She leans closer again and he notices her lovely cleavage, creamy neck and nice collarbones. He sees _just_ _where_ he wants to bite. "I think you want to join me for a few drinks after work. You feel all comfortable talking to me about yourself and your life. You want to spend time with me. Do you understand?"

"I want to spend time with you."

"You do. You _really_ do."

"I really do."

Damon smiles but he realizes he's resorted to compulsion right away. Oh, well. You win some, you win some. Either way, it works for him.

* * *

Without her wearing the apron, Damon is able to appraise her body and it's just as sweet as her face.

Nice tits, about a C cup, which is delicious on such a small frame and a tiny waist. Nicely rounded butt that will jiggle very nicely when he fucks her from behind. Her hair is down to the middle of her back and fine, straight. Not very tall. About five four. Almost the exact opposite of Elena.

She's real _real_ sweet. Prime female meat.

_Tasty_.

He can smell her blood and it's A positive, Germanic and Nordic heritage.

He hasn't fed on a human for a while and he's feeling a bit randy tonight. Alicia might just get the Damon treatment. A few well-hidden strategically placed bites, on her groin, just above her pubes, inner thigh close to the 'v', breast, just below the bra line, drink just a bit to make things even better in the sex department and little bartend Alicia could be a nice diversion from situations he'd rather not think about right at this particular moment.

They sit in a booth and he thinks it's a shame they can't just go home right now and he could compel her up into his bedroom and onto his bed. It might just get Elena a bit jealous…

Then he stops himself.

Elena's too busy trying to control her bloodlust and getting her vamp sex in with Stefan to even think about him. Why the fuck is he thinking about her?

Especially when sweet little Alicia is sitting beside him, leaning close, resting her nice little chin on her hand, gazing into his eyes like she can't get enough of his talk about Civil War injuries and post-traumatic stress disorder.

Thing is, she's actually _interested_. It's not an act. She's not just attracted to him.

She's asking smart questions. Thinking about his answers. Making connections in her mind. He can practically see the wheels turning and he thinks, _Damn, Damon – shut the fuck up about the Civil War and get her thinking about more romantic matters, like how much she really wants to see you naked._

Or was that how much he wants to see her naked?

Damon doesn't care, and drinks down another double of bourbon because he's so close to her, leaning over, his face just a few inches from hers, and he can smell the blood on her breath and it smells so damn intoxicating.

If the world was the way it should be, he'd be in a bar run by vamps, and she'd sit on his lap and tilt her head to the side, pulling that long silky blonde hair out of the way for him, and he'd bite down and her blood would flow into his mouth…

Then, he'd take her home with him and undress her, piece by piece, and he'd make her sit on him, fuck him, and when she came, he'd bite her pretty little neck and drink her as she shuddered around his cock…

Oh, _God_, he has to get her home with him.

_Tonight_.

"So Alicia," he says, leaning in closer. "You've got family in Mystic Falls?"

She takes a drink from her own glass of bourbon.

"My big brother was supposed to be here, but I can't find him. He hasn't been answering his texts or phone. I think he must have gone on vacation without telling me."

"Your big brother?"

"Yeah," she says and smiles. "You'd like him," she says. "He has a very dry sense of humor."

He suddenly has a bad feeling about his. A very bad feeling.

"What did you say your last name was?"

"Saltzman."

Oh, fucking _hell_.

"Your brother's name?"

"Alaric," she says and laughs. "My little brother's name is Adrian. Alicia, Adrian and Alaric. My parents liked names that started with A I guess."

_Christ_.

He leans closer and takes her hand. Threads his fingers through hers.

Looks into her eyes.

"Alicia, I'm going to tell you some very sad news. You aren't going to cry. You're going to be OK. You're going to accept it. You're going to nod your head and smile. Do you understand?"

She nods her head and smiles. "I understand."

"Alaric's dead."

She keeps smiling. Nods her head.

"You'll miss Alaric, but you'll know he's in a better place. When you're alone, you'll cry a bit, but it won't last long. Then you'll move on. You'll always remember the happy times when you were together."

She blinks rapidly and it's as if his compulsion isn't strong enough to rein her emotions in. Her eyes brim, but she keeps smiling, nodding her head.

"Alaric's dead," she says. She squeezes his hand, hard, harder and he's surprised at her strength, as if all her emotions are transferred into her grip because he's not allowing her to express them – about the dead boyfriend or now, her dead brother.

"He was my friend," Damon says, and he remembers those last moments, remembers Ric faltering, collapsing in Damon's arms. How both of them realized that it meant Elena was dead and how both of them felt the pain of it together despite them both trying to kill the other. "I was with him when he died. It was quick."

"It was quick." She blinks and her tears spill over and down her cheeks. The smile never leaves her face. She exhales heavily, her breath ragged. "I want to go home." A tiny voice.

"I'll take you home," he says, suddenly sober. He helps her collect up her bag and takes her arm, leading her out of the bar. Before they exit, Mac calls out to Damon.

"Stay here," he tells her and she stands there, staring at the wall.

He goes to the bar, leans on it, facing Mac. "Yeah?"

"Is she all right?"

"Did you know she's Alaric Saltzman's kid sister?"

"What?" Mac frowns. "She said her last name was Reynolds. Has a Social Security Card with it on."

Damon shrugs. "She's upset. I'm taking her home."

Mac frowns. "Don't hurt her, Damon. I need her to work early shift tomorrow."

Damon makes a face. All thoughts of getting a nice piece of ass tonight are gone.

"Give me a break. The girl just found out her brother's dead. What do you think I am?"

"I _know_ you and I know _what_ you are, Damon. I'm serious." Mac raises his eyebrows. "Don't pull a Damon on her, OK?"

"_Phhht_…" Damon makes a face. Waves his hand at Mac in dismissal.

He leaves the bar and takes her arm once more, leading her out to his car. She's like a zombie, letting him direct her wherever. He opens the door and helps her into the passenger seat, then clips her seatbelt, places her bag on her lap.

She's still smiling like a mindless drone, staring straight ahead, the tears dripping down her cheeks but she's not crying. It's like her emotions are held in check but the tear ducts are not obeying his compulsion.

_Fuck_.

"Where do you live?"

"55 Leaside Crescent, Apartment 2A."

They drive in silence. He can't talk to her about Alaric. What's he going to say? _I killed your brother several times. We were drinking buddies. We killed vampires together. I cried when he died – twice._

Alaric's kid sister, come looking for him only to find he's dead.

* * *

She lives in an old apartment block, a heritage building. They get to the main entrance and then when they get to the door, he stops.

"Invite me in," he says.

She turns to him.

"Please come in."

He steps over the threshold and enters the apartment. It has rickety hardwoods and ancient plaster, fancy moldings on the ceilings, and a grand old red brick fireplace in the living room. It's sparsely furnished – student cast-off pieces and a desk with a bunch of research papers on the Civil War. Over the desk is a framed certificate from Duke – for a scholarship. It's for Alicia Saltzman.

"You're going to get ready for bed," he tells her. "Just ignore me. Pretend I'm not here."

She does, going to her bedroom, changing into a nightgown with her back to him. He was right about her nice round little ass, and then she's in the bathroom washing her face and brushing her teeth while he scouts the apartment, searching for clues about this woman he's got under his complete control.

He searches through her purse, finds her wallet and yes, there was a divorce. She took her mother's maiden name, had her ID changed. Her birth certificate is different from her drivers license and her social security card.

Alaric must have kept their father's name.

There's a picture of her on the fireplace mantle with Ric – taken not too long ago – maybe a year or so. They're standing in front of Duke. She has some certificate in her hand. He realizes how alike they are. Her hair is much fairer, but he sees a picture of the entire family and the father is really white-haired. Blue eyes. Same smile.

Then Damon checks out another picture. Alicia with some guy in uniform with black hair and blue eyes. Looks somewhat like him. Actually, looks a _lot_ like him.

The dead boyfriend. A dead ringer for Damon Salvatore.

No wonder she didn't want to even look at him at first. Damon understands how that feels – to meet someone who looks exactly like someone you're in love with whom you believed was either dead or lost to you.

A strange fascination that becomes an attraction that can't be denied, that pulls on your heartstrings, making you do all kinds of crazy stuff just to be near her.

_You don't want to go there, sister of my only real friend in oh, a very long time who's now dead. _

She comes out of the bathroom, her face scrubbed clean, her hair brushed and long, shiny in the overhead light. She's wearing a little baby doll nightgown and he can see her breasts through the thin cotton and they're just as delicious looking as he imagined. Full, heavy but perky, and right now her nipples are erect and she's just standing there waiting for him to tell her what to do.

He could compel her to fuck him but that's no sport.

"Can I cry now?" she says, her breath hitching.

"Not yet."

He drapes his arm around her shoulder and leads her to her bedroom and pulls the covers back. He points to the bed.

"Get in."

She does and lies down on her back staring straight up at the ceiling. He pulls the blanket up so that it covers her up to her waist. She lays her hand on the blanket, gripping it as if for safety.

He sits on the bed and bends down to her, running his fingers over her cheek, through her tears.

"You can cry for five minutes when I leave. Not too hard. Then you'll stop crying and you'll go to sleep. In the morning, you'll forget that I was the one who told you Alaric is dead. You'll think I dropped you off and you came up here alone. You'll think you always knew he was dead. You'll think you came to Mystic Falls because Alaric said he liked it here and you want to stay here for a while. You won't cry again about Alaric. You'll remember him fondly because you two were such good friends. Do you understand?"

"We were such good friends."

He bends down and kisses her cheek, pressing his lips there for a long moment. When he pulls away, she's still staring straight up at the ceiling, a smile on her face, her eyes still wet.

He leaves the apartment, making sure it's locked, the salty taste of her tears on his lips.

* * *

The next day, he's down at the market garden and watches her as she shops for food. She's dressed in something very pretty – a black sundress with thin straps that show off her nice breasts.

He watches as she picks through the fruit, holding peaches up to her nose and inhaling, her eyes closing. She smiles to herself as she does.

It makes him glad he compelled her to get over Alaric. No need for pain.

He goes up behind her then stands in her way so that she bumps into him.

"Well, hello you," he says.

She startles, and puts her hand over her heart, closing her eyes.

"Damon," she says. "You _scared_ me."

"I know," he says and grins. "I'm a very scary man."

They walk along and he waits while she buys her fruit. He decides he wants to be with her this afternoon. Sure, he wants to fuck her, but that's not likely for a while at least. He's also curious. Alaric's kid sister. He hasn't been able to get her out of his mind since last night.

"Hey, Alicia," he says and she turns to him, looks in his eyes and he knows he has her. He takes her bags. "You want to make lunch for me at your apartment. Just the two of us. You feel like making…" he says and looks around. Sees some fresh asparagus. "Like making linguine with fresh asparagus in a nice cream sauce. You love asparagus."

"I love asparagus," she says, smiling.

He smiles back and hands her a bunch.

* * *

They have fun, _actual_ fun, not compulsion-fun, preparing the meal. He's forgotten how much he loves to cook, loves the whole preparation and planning involved. Loves the finished product.

While she's draining the pasta, he goes to her stereo system and puts a CD in – she's got mostly classical music. Tchaikovsky. Rachmaninoff. Debussy. He puts on some Debussy. Something really mellow.

They sit at the small table with her second-hand store dishes and hand-me-down table cloth and napkins and eat and drink the wine he's brought along – a nice very cold Pinot Grigio.

He asks her finally about her dead boyfriend.

"He was doing his PhD when we met at Duke," she says, a soft smile on her lips. "He was my Teaching Assistant for a first-year class."

"Sounds illicit," Damon says, grinning. "Isn't that forbidden – against ethics or something?"

She smiles and stares at her glass of wine.

"We waited until the semester was over to do anything," she says. "But we were just barely able to wait."

"He was older than you."

"Ten years. Once you're an adult, its all the same."

He thinks that Elena wasn't even legal when he fell for her. She was technically jailbait and it surprised him, but the heart wants what it wants.

"When was he in Iraq?"

"He went back in 2006. Took time off from school. Was in Fallujah for a tour of duty and then was stop-lossed. When he came back, we met and he tried really hard to be OK for a long time, but he wasn't OK. I didn't know how bad until he was dead."

"So how long ago did he die?"

She takes in a deep breath. "A year and a half."

"Has there been anyone since then?"

She shakes her head, doesn't look at him. And his mind can't help but go there. He'll pop her post-bereavement cherry. _That_ will be sweet.

He imagines that she'll be so hot for it, she'll pop in no time flat. He shifts in his chair, a delicious ache starting in his groin at the thought.

He could just compel her right now and she'd be all compliant, but he doesn't want that. He wants her to choose him. To pick him. To make the move.

That would be really _really_ sweet.

They clean up the dishes, chatting about Civil War stuff, bits of trivia he's picked up over the years that tend to impress people.

Finally, the kitchen clean, she turns to him, and takes his hand. Pulls him into her bedroom. He's a bit dumbfounded for a moment – where's this coming from?

Then he snaps out of it. Doesn't matter where the fuck this is coming from. He's game.

It's just that this is so unexpected. He didn't really think she'd succumb so quickly without compulsion. She must be in real need. Damon isn't one to let a sweet young thing like Alicia down.

She pulls him to the bed, and he's only too willing to push her down on it, lying on top of her, his heart beating rapidly as she wraps her legs around his waist and he thinks, wow.

She's all in.

She's _into_ it.

They kiss, and it's all happening a bit too fast for even Damon. He wanted to linger over their first kiss, but she's not lingering over anything, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her, kissing him roughly.

He's just so shocked by her. It just doesn't seem right, somehow. He wonders if his compulsion the previous night hasn't done something to her. Then she rolls over on top of him, straddling his hips, rubbing herself against his erection, kissing him, her hands in his hair.

_Fuck_. This is wild compared to what he thought she'd be like but he just rolls with it, matching her fervor with his own much greater vampire lust, which he hadn't planned on releasing so soon but hey, she seems to want it.

Damon's not easily shocked when it comes to women and sex.

She's kissing him roughly, when he feels her sliding her hands up beside his head, under the pillow and before his brain can register that this is not a good thing, she has a dagger out and has it in his chest, deep in it.

He's able to grab it and pull it out, grimacing against the pain, easily overcoming her despite the wound. She missed every important organ through sheer dumb bad-luck and before she knows it, she's on her back with him straddling her hips, the bloody knife held to her neck.

"What the _fuck_?"

She's got this look of pure hatred on her otherwise lovely face, tears in her eyes.

"You killed him, you monster!"

She tries to reach back up behind her head, but he stops her and reaches himself, only to find a stake there.

_Jesus_…

She grabbed the wrong tool. He holds her hands over her head and looks at the stake. He recognizes it as one of Alaric's special designs.

"Where did you get this?"

She struggles beneath him, ignoring the knife held at her throat.

"Where'd you get this?"

She just won't stop fighting, and the blade of the dagger is dangerously close to her jugular.

"You're going to tell me everything," he says, trying to catch her eye so he can compel her.

"Oh, cut the bullshit. You can't compel me."

He frowns.

"My middle name might as well be vervain."

If his blood could run cold, it would at that moment.

"You little bitch," he says. "You've been stringing me along all this time."

"You've been trying to compel me all this time. What – can't get laid without it?"

He just shakes his head.

"I _didn't_ kill Alaric. He was my best friend."

"He would never be your friend. He hated vampires. You killed Isobel."

"Yeah, he hated vampires. Until he discovered that Isobel _chose_ to become a vampire. She _asked_ me to turn her. And until he became one himself so he could kill us all."

She stops struggling at that, frowning, a look of disbelief on her pretty little face.

"He what?" She looks devastated. "He'd never become a vampire."

"Well, sorry to have to break it to you, sweetheart, but yeah. He did. And he was a nasty motherfucker of a vampire."

He lessens his grip on her hands for he feels no fight in her any longer.

Now she's really crying. She lies there beneath him, her face utter devastation, crying like a baby. He lets go of her hands and she covers her face. He gets off her and she rolls on her side and weeps.

He sits and watches. There's nothing he can do and so he does nothing, just rubs her back. Finally, he leans down and puts his arms around her, pulling her into his lap and surprisingly, she lets him.

So much for battle plans.


End file.
